March 12, 2009

I have an idea to try my hand at writing fiction... I'd like to start a collection of short stories based on found photographs.

Found Photo Story #1:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thelma wears her pearl necklace everywhere– to the beach, on her way to the post office, and even while playing a game of tennis. These pearls are her most cherished memento left to her by her late mother. Wearing them makes Thelma feel connected to a mother she wishes she’d been closer to in life. So it’s not unusual on this occasion that Thelma’s pearls effortlessly waterfall down and around her neck. It is strange, however, that she is sporting the “Island Chef” apron that her husband Theo brought back for her from his business trip to Hawaii. She’s not known to make use of presents that she doesn’t fancy to be her style. Thelma in fact has a closet full of unwanted gifts that she hopes to one day re-gift to unsuspecting friends and family. In any case, tonight is a special night– Thelma wears the tacky apron to show Theo that she is proud of the promotion he received today at the advertising agency he works for. He’s hardworking, comes up with most of the greatest ideas, and receives zero credit for his efforts. However, as of today, he will make $40 more per week and he thinks this raise will help him sleep at night.

The better half of Thelma’s day was spent making herself presentable for the evening’s dinner party. She had nails to polish, hair to curl, and an outfit to construct. Luckily, she was inclined to vacuum last Sunday before her French tutor came for their monthly lessons; and the tulips that Theo gave her for her birthday (a few days earlier) looked like they had just enough life in them to last through the party. Thelma had also managed to lovingly set the table a week prior in attempt to appear relaxed and prepared when her dinner guests arrived, however, upon realizing she had not a drop of lime juice to serve up their favorite gimlets, she had to run to the corner store (curlers in hair) to fetch some just in time to return and find the first guest waiting on her doorstep.

Once hugs, kisses, hellos, and how-are-you’s are exchanged, Thelma encourages her friend to,

“Help yourself to a cocktail and fix me one while you’re at it. I’ve just got to put dinner on the stove!”

As the rest of the guests arrive, Thelma (still in curlers) shouts greetings at them from the smoke filled kitchen while juggling mini quiches and casseroles.

March 09, 2009

I found this book that I wrote when I was 12 years old... It includes a dedication page, cover page, copyright, about the author page, contents, poems and short stories. A Pocket Full of Poems serves as evidence of my early writing and graphic design skills. Check it out:

March 04, 2009

I was watching American Idol last night (sadly, it's about the most patriotic thing I do) and a contestant sang Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love." This led me to wonder what exactly is it that he will not do for love? I'm working on a google investigation to delve deeper into this issue... So far, I've found one interesting essay that speculates this big question, but no answers. Please let me know if you come up with anything.

Do you believe in {friend} love at first sight? Well you better believe it, cause Damon and I found it in our friends Lauren and Deron.* We've been an unstoppable, inseparable foursome ever since we met about a year ago. We live a couple blocks from each other, have dinner together at least once a week, and they even pig-sit Paprika and Taco. Friends of this sort really make you want to invest some stock in Fate. Cheers to {soul} friends!*

* Who by the way, have never harassed me about not mentioning them on this lonely little blog.* Thanks, Claire Fazio!

June 03, 2008

Check out my silly boyfriend's mustache (it was his suggestion to include chest hair in the pic.) He's been growing it months in advance to sport at our friends' wedding. It [the mustache] will also compliment his Zorro costume this weekend at his 2nd annual "Halloween in June" birthday celebration!

January 09, 2008

January 04, 2008

My mother ordered a "dear daughter" locket for me before she passed away. My aunt sent it to me for Christmas (imagine that cryfest.) The inside of the necklace says "I was never so blessed as the day you were born. I love you!" Well today is my birthday so, mom, I love you too and thank you.

January 03, 2008

I stumbled upon this poem I wrote last year. Recent events seem to have added weight to it:Future Stew

My backburner is turned on highboiling thoughts--of Cancer genes andhereditary fatty cells.Allowing these ingredients to surface would be enough to boil me over.So instead, I bring the pot to a simmer.

December 20, 2007

Valerie Courtney here- I’m fresh out of college and get this, my mother just lost her 8 year battle with cancer, a month shy of my 23rd birthday and what would have been her 59th. Christmas is around the corner and since Santa is probably swamped I thought I’d send my wish to you instead. I’m intent on writing a book chronicling the experience my family and I shared as we guided my mother through the dying process in her own home (with the much needed help of hospice nurses of course.)

My fear is this: I’ve been freelance designing for some time now and I can barely make my rent let alone pay for health insurance. So the next step is to set out to find a full-time job with benefits, however, I still don’t know what I want to be now that I’m all grown up. And I’m terrified of ending up at a job where everyone eats at their desks and works until 9pm. If that were the case, I would have no time to write and the story inside me might curl up and die in a dusty corner of my mind.

I’ve never been published, so in that sense, I guess I'm an amateur. However, I’ve been writing since I was a child, so I’m confident that with the right backing and a bit of coaching, I could produce something worth reading. I also feel strongly that the topic I intend to write about will hit home with a very vast audience. The “curse that is cancer” is no doubt prevalent in the hearts of so many people. I bet there’s not one soul that can say he/she has not been touched by the effects of this mysterious disease. My experience with it has surprisingly been a transcendent one. In telling my story, I aim to bring hope to individuals that are faced with a similar situation. I’ve always known that nothing in life happens exactly the way you expect it to and my mother’s death was no exception to that decree.

Some might think it’s silly to be writing to you, but all I want in doing so is to send my wish out into the universe. And whoever it is “they” are, say: it never hurts to try. I always come back to this and I think Walt Whitman said it best in his “Song of Myself,”

All goes onward and outward, Nothing collapses. And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

Thank you for giving me a reason to set my plan in motion. Even if nothing comes of this, I’ll feel like I’ve done just that.

December 18, 2007

So I’m about to turn the ripe age of 23 and my mother’s cancer just closed up shop. In technical terms I’m a motherless, illegitimate, only child. But sincerely, the whole experience was quite transcendent. All of a sudden I have this spiritual story to tell and I want to share it with everyone I care about. However, no matter how badly I want to relive my tale for friends whom will appreciate it, it’s pretty exhausting to tell it day after day. So my long- term goal is to put the whole thing on paper and ring up Oprah when I’m ready for a book tour. I thought I’d tickle two birds with one feather by jotting down vignettes here on this lonely little blog {that I pay for and seldom make use of.} Not only will I be able to sketch the chapters of my “highly anticipated” novel, perhaps I can speak to those of you that just can’t wait to hear all about it. First let me say, I’ve only got a handful of English courses on my resume- all I am sure of is that I know a story that's itching to be heard. If anyone knows the first thing about writing books or knows someone who does I’d love to hear from you/him/her/Oprah. Here it goes:

Titles–

#1– Teenie’s Big Gift {a ‘lil contrived I know, but I never pass up an opportunity to sneak in an oxymoron}

#2– “The Happiness That Attends Disaster” from Jeffrey Eugenides’, Middlesex {not sure about the legality of using a quote from another novel as the title of yours, plus maybe this one’s a little scary}

Ok I obviously need to keep that on the backburner.

I’ve decided that the ever-present theme of my story is simply this: my mother left my family and I with a super, special gift. Believe me when I tell you it wasn’t a monetary inheritance whatsoever, rather a sneak peek at what life (and death) really have to offer.In life, Teenie (mom) was known to all as the ultimate gift giver. She’d give you ten trinkets for one occasion and be content if you truly liked one out of the ten. I must confess that while she was on her deathbed, I told her I loved a certain shower curtain she gave me even though I didn’t, but that’s not something that a bit of professional counseling can’t help me get over. Anyhow, at first I thought that being front and center during her transition out of this world was ONE BIG GIFT. Upon reflection I came to appreciate that even in death, she doled out not one gift but dozens. This is where the structure (if any) of my story comes into play. Each person involved during her dying process proved to be one of Teenie’s Treasures. I’m thinking of forming each chapter around one out of a dozen or so of those people.

A natural person to start with would be my cousin, Alison. Let’s call this vignette (all titles are temporary):

*Like Siblings

My first cousin, Alison was present at all of the beginnings. She was the one who showed up when my mother was first cursed with breast cancer. Alison moved in with us straight after graduating college. She entered stage right just when we needed her most. She dressed me up for the middle school dance that I was pressured into but had no desire going to. She rescued me from my teenybopper-self by introducing me to real music that wasn’t Hanson or The Spice Girls. And she taught me that Sundays were so worth looking forward to: sleep in, don’t shower, watch smart shows on HBO. The Alison/Valerie/Teenie era is worth writing about, but that’s another story. Alison was also the person that my mother designated as the bearer of the bad news that marked the beginning of the end. The conversation between us over dinner on a mid- November evening in 2007, went something like this:

Al, straightforwardly: Your mom asked me to tell you that the chemo’s not working and it is only a matter of time.

Here she whips out the economy size box of tissues and I precede sobbing with,

“I’m not ready.”

Then two days after I had returned home from visiting my mother for Thanksgiving, my cousin/sister and I were on the earliest flight back out to Cleveland because the truth was, Teenie’s health was declining faster than any of us could have expected.

December 02, 2007

This fall it became evident that it was time for my mother's cancer to take her and she wanted to transition out of this world at home. My family and I helped her do just that this week- we saw her through until she took her last breath in her own bed. It was probably the most profound experience any of us will ever encounter. We have all embraced that experience as if it was the best gift she could ever give us. Naturally, I'll be faced with a heavy sadness, but all-in-all I'm happy that her suffering has ceased to burden her spirit. And I have the great honor of carrying her memory onward and outward.

All goes onward and outward, Nothing collapses. And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

October 03, 2007

Let me first express my love of oxymorons... small but mighty...happy dagger... violently happy... then let me share a wonderful passage from a book I'm reading called Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides– it's a concept that I've always cherished but could never find the right words to describe it. I think he hits the mark:

::Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic traincar constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members: connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever::

October 01, 2007

Happy October, all! Today marks the start of two inspired online markets. One is the brainchild of my old friend {long time vs. age–wise}, Jessica. The Shiny Squirrel is a showcase for emerging designers and artists. And, one of my daily blogspots, Poppytalk has just posted a site along the same lines– Poppytalk Handmade. Sneak a peek!

September 27, 2007

Last night we had to pick up Damon's truck from the mechanic in some random town (Bergenfield maybe) and we stumbled upon an awesome Korean (I think) supermarket. It was there that I made a most exciting impulse purchase. I present to you, my new ANYTOP (funny translation) blender, mixer, chopper thing!

comparable to but 100,000,000 times cuter than the "as seen on tv" Magic Bullet... now my kitchen sidekicks won't have to put their sunglasses on in order to cut onions.

September 26, 2007

I'm obsessed with Martha's Everyday Food mag. As soon as I get my hands on it I bookmark the recipes that appeal to me and add the ingredients to my next shopping list. I've always thought that I'd never even begin to consider having kids until I was able to serve them hearty, homecooked meals. {Rewind} This is not to say that I've even come close to imagining creating a child– Let's just say cooking makes me feel like I'm on a straight path to adulthood (whatever that means.) Oh geez... point here is last night I attempted Martha's Chicken Potpie and it wasn't half bad.

September 25, 2007

I also happened upon two amazing shops in the town of Wiscasset which boldly claims to be "The prettiest village in Maine." One shop aptly named, SMITTEN, was home to a most wonderful selection of housewares and jewelry. Another called, ROCK-PAPER-SCISSORS, was full of inspired stationery stuffs from all over. This is where I acquired this precious wooden postcard by SPITFIRE GIRL.

September 05, 2007

So get this... I left my wallet in a cab last week and came to terms with the fact that I'd probably never see the cute 'lil blue thing again. To my sweet surprise, (after I'd cancelled all my cards and applied for a new driver's license) some guy in Newark sent it back to me (minus the monies of course). The craziest part is he found my address on a blank check that I stupidly stored in my wallet and he didn't even write it out to thousands of dollars in cash! Damon joked that the bank would know it wasn't me anyway because my account has never been impregnated with such a hefty wealth. Perhaps, there is hope for humanity after all. Which leads me to a strange tidbit I noticed the other day– if vegetarians eat veggies isn't it strange to compare that to the term humanitarian?

August 31, 2007

Friday will forever be a welcome guest. Tomorrow Damon and I set sail for the Pocono Mountains. Sounds fun and woodsy, huh? Well, I think I inadvertently avoid outdoorsy activities– that means my weekends spent in the Poconos almost always consist of immobilizing myself on the couch. I'm committed to staying in pajamas while I immerse myself in HGTV re-runs in between naps. Something about the quieted woods– or perhaps it's the way I get so allergic that I feel like I've got the flu– I'm usually resigned to reading a book while Damon goes swimming with his dog and plays golf with his buddies. It's all peachy though, how often do city gals get to turn off their cellies and cuddle up with a good book? My point here was to tell you about the awesome book I picked up to accompany me on my trip. A woman at work said she thought I might like it, and boy was she on target. It's called Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. It's a memoir of sorts written by a very funny, Julie Powell. Lost and on the edge of turning thirty she turned to Julia Child's, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Julie set out to cook all 524 recipes in 365 days. It's so "Valerie works at Martha and develops an obsessive cooking hobby to distract her from everyday stress." She even kept a blog, The Julie/Julia Project, as a record of her undertaking. She did all of this when blogs were newborn babies so her last update was in '03. I'm only up to chapter three and you can see how enthusiastic I am. Damon's parents' couch, here I come!

August 27, 2007

happy monday to all five of my readers here at dots make diamonds. hope y'all had a good weekend– can't believe summer's packing to move on. Raise your hand if you think we all deserve a "Labor Week" instead of a measly "Labor Day." Hear, hear. Anyhowser, not much to report on this mornin' so I'll leave you with this link to a wonderfully, inspiring craftista blog. theblackapple.

So I knew I liked Miss Amy Winehouse, but I didn't know she had a thing for me. Thanks to my good friend, Kristin, I am now obsessed with myself even more than usual. Amy sings a really fun song called Valerie. Check it out.Download Valerie.m4a

August 22, 2007

The one "good thing" about trekking out to MS all the way on the west side is passing through Chelsea's gallery territory. Sadly, I rarely make time to actually set foot in one– lucky for me however, art tends to sometimes leak out onto the sidewalks. Judith Supine, surprisingly a mister, was the first discovery I happened upon outside of a gallery on 25th Street. His collage work is super inspiring and he's even posted a demonstration of his technique on YouTube. If you can tear yourself away from those TPS reports for a minute and a half– it's worth checking out.

It's been a gray, rainy week here in the city. The weather brings new surprises each week– I hate to think that Nostradamus is somewhere saying, "I told you so." Anywho, on a lighter note, I'd like to share a tidbit that cheers me up on rainy mornings at work. Everyone here lines their umbrellas up to socialize while they dry off– it's charming to see them lined up next to eachother. It's a simple pleasure I know, perhaps you just had to be there. Can you guess which one is mine? (Thanks Mom.)

A sticker on a lamppost led me to this strange/interesting campaign for an energy drink called Motley Bird. At first glance, I thought it was some sort of messenger bird service. They have a charming "Send a Lovebird" section where you can supposedly have them send a free handwritten postcard to a friend (I thinks it's just a ploy to get you to give 'em your email address.) I'll let you know if that carrier pigeon ever makes it over to my mailbox.

It's a strange feeling having to yield to your daily routine while people you love are stuck in scary situations. Damon says we both have loved ones in harm's way– his brother, Michael, is stationed over in Afghanistan and my mother is enduring chemo (again) in attempt to win her lifelong battle with cancer. My mom is "stationed" over in Ohio– even though it's definitely not as far as Afghanistan– it's not close enough. In both instances, all we can do is wait to see if they'll win the good fight— wait to see if our hearts will ever be whole again.

August 21, 2007

It's amazing how one thing leads to another in every sense of the world. In this case I'm referring to the links upon links that envelop me as I hop from one blog to another. After discovering Flavour Design during my previous post– I was awe inspired by their super smart collection of sushi themed greeting cards "cardiology:: from the heart."

I always keep my eyes open for antique clawfoot bathtubs on garbage night. Making a couch like Holly Golightly's in Breakfast at Tiffany's has forever been on my list of "to do's." If anyone can suggest the easiest, cheapest, least messy way to cut such a tub in half– I'd love to hear from you. In looking for a picture to post as reference, I found that a few other bloggers have shared the same obsession. They even led me to find a "no hacksaw required" version of a tub/couch by Flavour Design. It's super exciting, however, my budget won't allow for it for quite some time ($4800). Until then, I'll look for a discarded tub to adopt and watch tv from my bathroom.

July 30, 2007

June 14, 2007

Damon turned 30 last week. However, it seemed more like we were celebrating an 11 year old's birthday. Instead of freaking out about the big bad birthday, my boyfriend embraced it lovingly with his big ole' man arms. He proposed having "Halloween in June" and that's just what we did. His "Birthday Boy" superhero suit was such a hit that we've officially named "Halloween in June" an annual event. Mustaches were glued in place, pillows served as pregnant bellies, drunkasauruses and lobsters shamelessly flaunted their love for eachother– most importantly we got the fun done. If these pictures don't inspire you to brainstorm costume ideas for next year you might as well drink a glass of warm milk and turn in early tonight.

June 04, 2007

May 31, 2007

I desperately wanted a kitten to snuggle and smother with kisses, but Damon didn't see it fair since he can't have his rottweiler, Kitty in our apartment. So after days of [me] pouting effortlessly– we settled on getting a guinea pig. She's red and white so the obvious name for her was "Miss Paprika Jones." A few months after she settled in we presented her with a buddy- whom we call Taco. We built them a complex pig playhouse which they enter through a bookcase in our living room. They are the happiest, fattest guinea pigs in all of Jersey. Shout outs to Paprika and Taco!

My family dubbed me a “writer” long before I could come to appreciate the title. I spent most of my after-school hours, alone compiling books of poems and stories complete with dedications, table of contents, and “notes from the ten year old author.” Once my mother got a hold of my work, she would make tons of photocopies and send them off to live on relatives’ and friends’ refrigerator doors. It was embarrassing to see my most intimate thoughts magnetized to distant cousins’ appliances. In time, however, I developed a great sense of achievement in the whole writing process.

I signed up for a creative writing class in my senior year of high school. Looking back, I thank my lucky stars for that course because without it I think “Senioritis” could have gotten the best of me. The teacher was passionate and therefore a super inspiration. It was then I realized that writing pieces that made people laugh equaled happiness. I was unstoppable that year! One humorous poem led to another. I’m most proud of a children’s book I created that told a story of friendship through letters.

My writing, however, isn’t always puns and giggles. Once in awhile it’s laced with cynicism and reeks of the bittersweet. At the start of college, I was enrolled in an English Composition course. There I wrote “My Defective Superhero” which is a memoir of how my mother and I laughed our way through the scary stages of her breast cancer. “Eccentricity,” is a descriptive journey through my loony Aunt Marilyn’s claustrophobic brownstone. I find pleasure (not to mention therapy) in writing about the dysfunctions of life, which might be why I enjoy reading authors such as Simon Doonan, Augusten Burroughs, and Amy Sedaris.

Hiccups in everyday routine also leave me inspired. The introduction of a refreshing individual, unusual antics on the commuter bus, or stepping in unidentifiable slime all qualify as interruptions in life that might encourage me to write a poem or story.

As a recent college graduate, working towards a profession in Packaging Design (or something like it), I express myself through creative copy on the backs and sides of boxes. All that I can hope for is that in searching for a sandwich, someone might stumble upon my words on a freezer door (or a box inside the freezer) and laugh until they cry or cry until they laugh.

1. Marinate sore breasts in a fair
amount of irritability.
2. Empty migraines into large bowl
and immediately add entire
bottle of Midol.
3. Stir in hot flashes and add a
couple pinches of drowsiness.
4. Mix, beat, toss and turn all of
the emotions.
5. Top with as much chocolate as
possible.
6. For best results, chill for 5-7 days.

Boyfriend Wanted! Must be dashingly handsome, sensitive, witty, and fun. Must also be able to reach things in high places, open tight jars, and fix most everything! Now all clichés aside, notice my boyfriend want want-ad doesn’t call for a man with a bulging wallet. When searching for a potential date, I ask “Is he fun to talk to? Is he cute? Does he shower regularly?” I almost never wonder, “Does he have a ton of cash?” He’s a man, not an ATM machine! However, I find that even in today’s modern society, girls all over the country expect men to shell out all kinds of cash on dates. Is it wrong if I feel the need to whip out my wallet and pay for my own hamburger and romantic comedy?

I recently went to see a movie with a guy and the most awkward part of the date came when it was time to pay for the tickets. We both exchanged bills with the cashier: that was that. I was so relieved. There was no “Put your money away… I’ll get this one… No, really let me.” Thank God. Some women act like the sun won’t come out tomorrow after a man doesn’t insist on forking over the green for her chicken Caesar salad. Personally, I’d gladly pay for myself and my date if he’d have it. I once dated a guy who was in between jobs at the time. If I hadn’t been willing to fund our Friday nights out, we might have sat home and engaged in some enthralling games of Monopoly. And I know if the situation were flipped, he would happily treat me to a night out. So you see, I feel if one person is more financially able to pay for a date, more power to ‘em; whether it be he or she.

Some might argue that men should pay because it’s been an age-old tradition forever and ever and ever; but hey, people thought the world was flat for the longest time, and we’ve made some realizations since then. Column writer, Glenn Sacks knows how it should be:

Enough! The obligation of a man to pay can wound a budding relationship by placing money and one-sided expectations where love and honesty should be. In addition, its innate unfairness hinders the uneasy rapprochement men and women are currently negotiating after three decades of gender conflict. In the long run, abolishing this outmoded social convention will benefit both men and women. And what’s fair is fair. (Sacks)

You tell them Glenn! Old habits die hard, I know, but it’s about time we make a change here.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no he-woman-man-hater. I enjoy the Cinderella story just as much as the next princess. I believe in chivalry and some form of courtship, but I don’t expect my knight in shining armor to wine me, dine me, and buy me diamonds. It seems like a lot of men feel like 24 carat gold is the only way to a girl’s heart. In “Girl’s Best Friend,” rapper, Jay-Z professes:

“Soon I spent every dollar/ You became my habit… In the hands of goldiggas you’re never enough/ Rings, things, just never enough.”
(Jay-Z)

I certainly don’t want to be anybody’s habit! Hey Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, whatever, I don’t care how may benjamins you’ve got. You had just better treat me nice!

How does Prince Charming feel about all this? I asked a couple male friends if they would feel less of a man in the event of a lady paying her own (and maybe his) way. Most agreed it’s tough [in] deciding whether or not they should pay, but would not mind if a woman offered to go Dutch. One friend said he “would be flattered” if she took care of the bill. Another claimed that when he doesn’t offer to pay, the woman should take that as a sign that he’s not into her and shouldn’t expect a second date.

Another reason for my paying is I don’t want the man to feel I owe him anything. The following excerpt is from a book collective for women by women:

The tradition that men pay for meals and tickets on dates feels comfortable to some women but not to others. Sometimes a man uses this tradition as a way to make a woman feel indebted to him, implying that she would ‘repay’ him with sex. (Pincus 189)

I am in no way “indebted” to anyone if he picks up the tab. Back when cavemen did their thing, testosterone driven males hunted and offered meat to the women as a sort of payment. I’m no cavewoman! Before women’s lib, females vacuumed, bathed babies, and cooked tuna casseroles for their male counterparts. I’m no housewife! I work hard for the money and Boston Market can have dinner ready in five.

The bottom line is I think it’s mighty courteous to open doors, pull out chairs, and cover puddles; however, let it be known that I’m perfectly capable of these things. I’m quick to the draw when it comes to paying for eats and entertainment on dates, but I won’t start a riot if a man insists on treating moi. I don’t require a tennis bracelet and dozens of roses to keep me content; good conversation and the occasional complement will tide me over. So ladies, let’s not be bought by men, and remember, if Mr. McHandsome forgets his wallet, it’s nothing to get all crazy about.

Works Cited

Jay-Z. “Girl’s Best Friend”. Vol. 3: Life and Times of S. Carter. Def Jams. 1999.

I had bad luck with teeth as a kid. By my second birthday I had already had one too many run-ins with my mustachioed dentist. I guess my mother let me suck on my bottle too long so I developed something referred to as “milk mouth” and had to undergo a procedure to put caps on my front teeth. All I remember from that ordeal is being wheeled into recovery in what felt like a circus animal cage. Sometimes I’m not sure if that memory is real or a fragment from a nightmare.

Anyway, the real “teeth” tale to be told happened when I was in kindergarten. My closest friend at the time was a smart, quiet girl named Raven Lauro. I spent hundreds of afternoons over at her house since my mom worked full time and there was nobody to eat after-school grilled cheeses with at my house. Thankfully, the Lauro home had Fred, who was always there to offer a ferocious welcome. Fred was a six-foot, taxidermied, grizzly bear that Mr. Lauro brought home from one of his hunting excursions. Whether it was a Santa hat at Christmastime, shamrock shorts for St. Patty’s, or jeans on casual Fridays, Fred was decked out for every occasion.

Despite the quirky grizzly in the living room, the Lauros were perfectly disciplined like a family in an after-school special. It was always, “homework before playtime” with delicious, home-cooked snacks in between. It was only after all schoolwork had been reviewed, that we could head out to their fenced-in, suburban back yard. Raven and her sister, Georgi, had everything a six-year-old wished for on his/her Christmas list. The scene was furnished with an above-ground pool, trampoline, and of course, a sparkling, aluminum swing-set. The set was complete with a clubhouse, slide, two regular swings, and one two-seater teeter-totter swing. The teeter-totter swing transported us to the planet Pluto, planted us on many a pirate ship, and ultimately landed me in the emergency room!

Even though Raven’s sister was younger than us, we sometimes let her join in on our games- if only so it looked like we were making an effort to include her when Mrs. Lauro peeked out at us from the kitchen window. In reality, our kindergarten attitudes made it so we never let her be a captain or a princess. The roles of deckhand and pauper were reserved for Georgi if and when we paid her any attention at all. You’re probably asking yourself, “What does any of this have to do with bad luck and teeth?” Bear with me, I’m working towards that.

I’m not sure what imaginary world we were frolicking in on the day of the incident- the whole thing is sort of a blur. I think the “kindergarten trauma” and “childhood nightmares” files are catalogued in the same folder in my memory bank so sometimes they seem one in the same. Anyway, the bulk of what I do remember goes something like this:

Raven and I were doing our thing on the regular swings unaware that her sister was picking up speed on the teeter-totter swing. I guess at some point I gracefully ejected myself from my swing and backed up towards Georgi on the two-seater. She must have gained some serious momentum because before I knew what hit me (the empty end of the teeter totter), I was down on the ground with a numb mouth and the Lauro girls were screaming. Mrs. Lauro came out in a panic and by the horrified look on her face I could have swore my face fell off. From here the memory becomes incoherent- bloody hands, nervous faces, and a rocking embrace. I thank my brain’s stenographer for not engraving the pain in full detail on the walls of my memory.

My mother arrived on the scene, oblivious to the accident, “Hi Fred, cool sunglasses!” After greeting the stuffed grizzly, she noticed Raven’s mom was cradling me on the couch.

“What’s going on here?”

“There’s been a mishap. I think it’s pretty serious…”

“Valerie what happened?”

Raven’s mom cupped my mouth. I think she came to the conclusion that if I tried to answer myself, the strings my teeth were hanging on would snap. Raven relived the whole thing for my mother who was already on the phone with Dr. Hilasfky, my dentist who eerily resembled Geraldo Rivera (but even creepier.) Supposedly, he had just closed the office and was half way home for the day but he considered my bloody mess to be enough of an emergency to turn around and meet us immediately.
As creepy as he was (I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a convicted pervert), Dr. Hilasfky was a miracle worker when it came to kids’ damaged chompers. He also had an awesome “prize drawer” for drooling kids to rummage through while they were coming off of Novocain and laughing gas. This is where I attained my “Toothy Treasure” box that housed my four front teeth after he yanked ‘em out.

“Mom, you fink the toof fairy will know what happened to my teef?”

“Of course, I called her personally. She’s going to take extra special care of you.”

Miss Tooth Fairy must have felt really bad about my experience because a flip of my pillow revealed a crisp twenty-dollar bill (either that or she didn’t have anything smaller in her purse.) She also left the treasure chest of teeth for me to show off to all my friends at school. While most kids of my caliber were still tugging at their first loose baby tooth, I’d knocked out four at a time. This phenomenon gained me new status on the playground. I went from playing the wimpy “damsel in distress” to lurking around in the “bad-ass vampire” role. I hissed at bullies- my black smile haunted them on their nap mats. My new set of teeth must have grown in just in time for picture day because there proves to be no evidence of this toothless tale. All that remains of my teeth trauma is fragmented memories of teeter-totter swings, blood in hands, accessorized taxidermy, and kindergarten politics.

Well, it's the story of my time spent
studying packaging design at the
Fashion Institute of Technology.
Who am I, you ask? Why I'm a
quirky 'lil Jersey gal who's got BIG
ideas and a passion for inspired design.

Everyone who’s anyone in design-land is
familiar with Pantone. They’re undoubtedly
pioneers in color. But what would Pantone
be known for if they existed way back in the
late 1800’s? Perhaps they would play at the
creation of vibrant inks, paints, and dyes...